Bitter Circles
by Flicker
Summary: Everything goes around in bitter circles. I thought for several crazy years I was doing okay. And then I started to forget what okay was.
1. Better

**Bitter Circles**

*** 

**Author: Flicker [Alex] **

**Rating: PG, PG-13? **

**Genre: ER; Angst [Abby POV] **

**Summary: In my life, everything goes around in bitter circles. I thought for several crazy years I was doing okay. And then I started to forget. Forget what "okay" meant. What six years of sobriety did for me. I'm forgetting and I'm lost and I don't want help. I don't *need* help. I don't. **

Better 

---   
Just when I thought that I was better  
I realized that I don't know what better was  
Is it better than I used to be?  
Better for you or for me?   
--- 

I breathe out and the smoke surrounds me, its ashy smell engulfing me. Choking me. Killing me. I watch as Carter comes out of the ER and looks around. He's probably finished his shift. 

Oh god. I would hide if there were anywhere to hide. _Go away. I don't need this. Not now. _

He sees me and walks towards me. He doesn't smile. He studies the mental wall I've built around me. I feel a faint pull at my lips as I smile painfully. The smile of a guilty person caught red-handed. 

"Hey." 

"Smoking again." He says it flippantly, not questioningly. I pull my scrubs closer around me with one hand and take another puff. To show him. Show him I don't care what he thinks. I _don't . . ._

"I've always smoked. It's –" I reach to explain, but he shrugs, as if he doesn't care. I shut up. It annoys me that suddenly everything I do or feel or want is under question when I'm around him. I _don't care . . . _

His foot kicks at the curb of the pavement and his back is to the entrance of the ambulance bay, so that he faces me. But his head is down; he doesn't say anything. Why doesn't he say it? Why doesn't he ask me? _Why? _

". . . I'm on a break." I struggle for conversation in the uncomfortable silence. I was never made for small talk. But then again, with him, there was no need.

"I'm off but--" He continues to look at the ground. 

". . . But what?" I prompt. I'm daring him now. I'm daring him to yell at me. So I can yell back. So I can tell him how much I hate this all. How much I hate this stupid circle of events. How much I hate my life. 

He hesitates and he looks as if he is going to say something, but in the end, doesn't. He stops kicking the curb. Instead, he paces slowly in front of me, making circles. I give up and breathe in more nicotine. 

"Were you even going to tell me?" On the last word he looks up at me. He looks angry and incredulous, but he cares. It's amazing how bad he can make me feel. 

"Yes." I lie quietly. He laughs dryly. 

"God, Abby! Don't lie to me. You owe it to me to tell the truth, at least." I don't look at him. But then I feel frustrated, and my mouth opens, and I say, 

"I don't owe you anything." I don't mean to say it, but I'm angry. Why does he suddenly care? He has Susan now, so what the hell am I for? He obviously didn't care that night I told him, that night when I told him what I wanted. I can't be his friend anymore. I don't want to be his friend anymore. And he made it perfectly clear he didn't want me. Maybe he did, once, but not anymore. 

"You're right, you don't. You don't owe me a thing. But _I owe it to you to help you, Abby. And I can't help you if you don't tell me that you're drinking again." He rakes a hand through his hair. I've lost track of time, but I'm sure my break is over by now. But there's no sign of escape unless someone comes out looking for me._

I hate this conversation. I've heard it over and over so many times in my head. I knew what he would say, how he would try to help me and how I would hate him and hate what he had to say, even though I knew he was right. I knew he was right and I hated it.

"You know, I don't think I want to be 'helped' right now." He's got me angry now. He's gotten me angry and indignant and I feel pissed. "I don't need your help. I've been doing okay without your help for weeks now. And why _should I listen to you? Why __should I listen to what you think is right, or what you feel would be good for me, or what you want me to do? Because I've said it before and I'll say it again__, I had a life before John Carter. I had a life before you. And I don't need you and I don't need your help! I don't want your advice. I don't want a shrink . . .just leave me alone. Please, just leave me alone Carter." I beg him with my eyes. Beg him to let it pass, let me go. I can't be strong anymore, I can't go on. I've given up and I appeal to him to give up too. To give up on me. __Please. He looks at me, and I never see his determination waver. He watches me with sad eyes. But not pitying eyes. Never pity. From him it was always empathy. I fall into his eyes . . . _

"No." He shakes his head at me. "No." He repeats with certainty. "You don't need a shrink. What you need is a friend. I can't let you do this Abby. I care about you and I care about your life and I can't watch you do this to yourself. You've come too far to give up." I hate him. 

"God, can't you just give up?! I'm _fine Carter, just *__fine*!" I yell at him, but I want to scream. I want to hit out at something -- anything. I want a drink . . . _

"Abby . . ." He watches me tear my life apart. And I don't care. 

"I can do the hell I want with my life!" I stop and momentarily, feel bad, but my anger pushes it away. This is no time for logic, or sense. It's about what I want, what I need. And I don't care what he thinks or what he thinks he knows. "I'm a drunk, Carter. And I need to be." I shrug. "I need it." I turn around, turn my back on him, on sobriety. I give up and walk back towards the ER. 

"You're stronger than that, Abby. You don't need anything." He calls after me. I don't say a thing, but I laugh bitterly inside. If I don't need it, then why do I feel so empty without it? 

---   
Epilogue to this chapter  
--- 

I turn the key in the lock and the door opens easily. Luka did a good job with it. My apartment, however, looks like it got trashed. Home sweet home. 

I take the grocery bag from under my arm and set it on the table. I kick the door shut, and make sure it locks. 

I sit down and I feel like crap and exhausted and lonely. I hate it. I hate it all. And that's what I keep on thinking as I pull out a bottle from the grocery bag and pop open the lid. I hate it all. I hate it all. I pull the bottle to my lips and think faintly of Carter as I take my first gulp of the bitter alcohol. How I hate it all. And how disappointed he must be. 

And you know what? 

I don't care. Not anymore. 

*** 

**Author's Note: I don't know whether I should continue. Ideas? Comments? Any would be muchly appreciated. =) **


	2. Angel

****

Bitter Circles

***

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Author: Flicker [Alex]

****

Rating: PG, PG-13? Bit of language

****

Genre: ER; Angst [Abby POV]

****

Summary: [Couple of weeks later] 

Angel

---

Lost inside this angel town 

Lost like I could not be found 

No connections of the heart

Love was glass that broke apart 

Give me faith in dreams 

And someone to hold 

Give me love 'cause I'm out here in the cold

---

"Are you an angel?" My head looks up from the pale, milky skin from which I'm withdrawing blood. Me, an angel? I've never heard "Hark! Here is the drunkard angel Gabriel!" uttered about angels. Do they know addiction? Do angels get sad and bitter and dark and unworthy? No, I didn't think so.

Today is just another day. Another crappy day in the life of Abby Lockhart. But for this one kid… I smile at her and shake my head.

"No." It's not my smile. It's a fake smile I wear for patients. I parade around for approval with it, I haven't _really_ smiled for a long time.

"My daddy said that all doctors are angels on earth." Amy's only five. I don't want to tell her that doctors are human just like everyone else, that they have to cope with their own crap _and_ everyone else who gets themselves shot or beaten or diseased or hurt. All in the name of shitty pay. And a never-ending circle of work and coffee and late-night shifts that they can't escape. 

"I'm not a doctor, I'm a nurse." She shakes her head at me and I feel a little diminished. How, and why all of a sudden do I feel like _she's_ the adult, and I'm the child?

"But my daddy said that doctors are people who make people better. You make people better." I glance at her father, who stands behind her, looking awkward. 

"They do. And I do. But that doesn't mean we're angels." I take out the needle and put a plaster on the small red hole. "I, for one, haven't seen any halos or wings around here." She smiles as she picks out a random doctor, and as luck goes, of all people, it would be Carter.

"Angels wear white." She says, pointing at his white coat. I look at her, amused. Carter, an angel. Well, I guess it's more believable than me being an angel. I tuck the blood sample into my pocket and as I leave to drop it off to be tested, my back pushing the door open so that I'm facing Amy, I stop and say,

"I'm not wearing white." And leave her to ponder on that fact. 

***

I hurry myself down the hallways as I return with the results. I'm not trying to avoid Carter. It's more like I'm trying to avoid any private areas he may be able to corner me in.

We're still not talking. I mean, I don't blame him. It's not like I left him anything to say. And I couldn't say anything to him anyway. I just don't need him or his saintly helpfulness and I don't need his support or his smile, and I don't need his pain to sink in. I don't need him to save me.

I continue to walk, and I don't realize that my pace slows as I get lost within my thoughts. I'm unaware that my brow furrows, as I become more and more indignant thinking of how much I hate what Carter is trying to do for me.

It's unfair. It's unfair how he expects me to be the one to choose not to give up, the way he wants me to be strong, when he _knows_ what it's like. He knows how it feels to be so alone and he knows addiction. He knows how everything hurts, and how your mind feels like it's going to explode and how your heart is going to cave in and how you crave something to soothe the pain. You crave somebody's help. You're screaming for help inside, but no one can hear, or they're not listening. You stumble and reach out for anything, anything to make it all go away, and there's nothing there. And then you see one option. 

Lately, I hadn't thought I needed that option. It would be going back on several years of progress. But then what is "progress"? Is being sober going to give me a better life? Will it make people care? Will it scare away those demons on the dark, lonely nights that haunt me? No, being sober just makes it worse. It clarifies everything. Every little twinge of pain or doubt or hurt or confusion or anger is accentuated, magnified, and your mind is so painfully clear. 

You need anything, anything that will make it blur.

I don't know why I give in so easily. I guess it's because I want it, and most of all I need it. What else is there for me? When I had an abortion, where was my family? Where was Richard and when did he become just "my husband"? Where was Maggie when I needed a mother? Where was Luka when I needed support? Where is Carter when I need him most? First he shoves his tongue down Susan's mouth as soon as she comes into the ER, and then he thinks he can tell me what to do. Most of all, though, where the _fuck_ am I? When did I get lost into this dark, bitter and unworthy being? 

I run a hand through my hair as I feel something tearing at my eyes and at the back of my throat, and I fumble towards something resembling normality. I will not break down. I will be strong. All I need is a couple more hours and then this facade can disappear. And then I can cry in solitude. I can watch as every minute of my life passes by without so much as a glimmer of hope. I can forget that I'm Abby Lockhart and I can drown my stupid, little, pathetic sorrows in alcohol. 

"Something wrong?" I look up, and groan inwardly. Why him of all people? Why now of all the possible times?

"No." I say sharply, wrapping my scrubs around my body to make a point, physically. "I'm fine." His eyes bore into me and I feel the intensity despite the fact that I'm not looking up at him. I wait for something to happen, to provoke me into yelling, or into making a scene and then I would inevitably run off. Something to make the day worse. I wait. Nothing comes. 

"Okay." I continue to look down, and then imagine him to shrug as he utters those two empty syllables. And then he walks away, no questions asked. 

Bastard.

How can he do that? How can he care one minute and then completely give up the next? How can he be so cold? I'm such an idiot. I _wanted_ him to try to help me. And it's my entire, stupid, fault for pushing him away, in a moment of irrationality. Who wouldn't blame him for listening, the way I yelled at him? God, I hate myself so much. I am such a fucking idiot. I. Hate. Myself.

I rub my face angrily. It's not life that's screwing me over, it's not God who's doing it either. I'm doing it to myself. I have no one to blame but myself for this sordid mess I've created for myself to survive in.

***

I play the good nurse for the rest of my shift, clearing things up for the little kid who thought I was an angel. She just smiles at me, either completely forgetting that I couldn't possibly be an angel, or because she really is just dumb.

I'm harsh with my thoughts and I know it, but I don't care. 

When I'm done with her, she and her father begin to put on their coats and grab their bags. I let them leave, and I feel momentarily satisfied. She's going to be okay. Just before I turn around, though, she looks back at me. I wonder what she's thinking. I guess something along the lines of, "crazy bitch" but condensed into a little child's language. She continues to watch me as her father drags her along, fighting the incoming crowd of the freshly injured. I have never felt more scrutinized, except for maybe at a couple of AA meetings, but then everyone's looking at you and you're meant to feel scrutinized. And just before she disappears out of the doors, she yells, 

"My daddy said angels aren't meant to know they're angels!" Could have been at anyone. I look around me, searching for anyone but me that she may have called out to. There's no one else looking her direction. I shrug and turn around. Angels are like drugs or alcohol. A crutch for people who can't handle reality. 

***

"I hate my life, I hate my life, but most of all I hate my life…" I sit on the floor of my apartment, in my underwear, with the taste of tears and a bitter lingering of beer in my mouth. I'm quietly singing my own rendition of the infamous Coke advert song. I haven't drunk much, a couple of beers. I couldn't bring myself to drink anymore than that.

I had gotten to the third bottle and suddenly stopped. It wasn't making me any better, it was just making me hate myself more. 

I can't believe I'm doing this. I resist the urge to puke out of self-hate. God, I hate this so much. I look at the beer bottle next to me, unfinished, but open. In anger I knock it over and it spills onto the carpet. I start to cry and I drown within my tears.

  
  


Minutes, hours pass, but my sobbing subsides. I feel suddenly cold. I should sleep. I have a shift sometime in the morning. But I get up and stumble to the bathroom and I glance at myself in the mirror. The woman who stares back is someone I have come to recognize for the past month or so. There are dark shadows under her eyes, and wild hair frames her face. Tears are streaked down her face, and she shivers. I splash water onto my face and look back up. It is the same woman. Still. 

If only I would change to be a better person. 

Once again I shiver, so I change out of my underwear into newer underwear and pull on baggy pants and a sweater. I grab my keys and look behind me before I leave the apartment. What a fucking mess. Unopened beer bottles are laid around the floor and clothes are strewn carelessly over the back of chairs and on top of tables. I sigh and leave. If only for a couple hours.

  
  


I walk around the streets of Chicago, but I have no idea what I'm doing. It's dark, late, and dangerous. Something inside is willing me to get beaten or killed by some criminal in the dead of night because I don't have the guts to do anything to myself. The better part of me wants me to go somewhere safe. There is nowhere. My own home is a mess and I will not go to Luka's. There's always Susan, but I don't know where she lives. Carter is another possibility to be ruled out. I'd almost laugh wryly if it hadn't been for the dark silence around me. Streetlights are lit and you can see the headlights of cars in the distance, but I am completely alone. I guess I should have gotten used to it by now. 

I walk a little more, unaware of where my feet are leading, but vaguely sure. The area seems familiar and I haven't been attacked yet. It changes. This is the better part of Chicago. I regret going out for such a long walk without my coat. I feel half frozen, and I breathe out wisps of air as the heat from inside me hits the atmosphere. It's almost as if I am breathing out my entirety. 

I look around me and notice that if I turn right I would be on Luka's street. Strange. I turn left. 

I don't know why I'm doing this. I don't know why I'm walking in the middle of the night in amidst nowhere. But then a lot of things have been in question lately. One of them being my sanity. 

If I had an angel, I guess they would have saved me by now. That's why I don't believe in angels. I was never one of those kids who believed in Santa Clause or the tooth fairy. For one thing, we were lucky if we got Christmas presents and we were never rewarded for losing teeth. It was never about money, it was just our parents. When we had found out about Santa Clause, we were too far past the point of believing in much. So angels weren't that much different. But it was probably just a girl thing that I liked the _idea_ of angels. I liked the notion that there was someone watching over you, and watching out for you. I'd hope for an angel when my mother acted out. And for a while I thought she didn't have an angel, because she was always getting hurt. Then I gave up and figured no one had an angel. From what I had heard, angels helped when you needed help.

I carry on walking, this time by a main road. A couple of cars pass me by, but most of the regular people are sleeping. Not keeping vampire hours. I notice that up ahead of me is the road that leads to the drive that leads to the Carter mansion. He has such a big place. I'm surprised he doesn't get lonely that much. But I guess he has his grandmother and some servants, though I don't know how much company they are.

I pause and think. I could walk up there and ring the doorbell, and probably some servant would answer, and then I could ask to speak to "John Carter" and then explain and then… and then… I stop. No amount of explaining will solve anything. Not when the problem lies with me, not him. 

So I continue my irregular route to nowhere, apparently. My feet propel me forward and onwards. They begin to ache a little. I'm not used to this much walking. The sky starts to lighten, which means it's in the early hours of the morning and I should be getting ready for a shift in a couple of hours. My pace quickens and then suddenly, I realize where I'm going. I'm going to where the AA meetings are held. Now I have reason to believe I am crazy. They aren't open to mad alcoholic women who wander around at night past her prospective and ex-lover's houses. 

Nevertheless, I continue to the building. It doesn't matter that it isn't open. I'll go later, when it is. I want to be better. And I'm sick of feeling sorry for myself. I want to get better, even if it means having to sit through treacherous AA meetings. I want some piece of the sober Abby inside of me, and I want some part of my old life back.

Angels are never angels until they choose to be.

***

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Author's Note: Looks like I *am* going to continue, but ideas are still welcomed. As is feedback. Direct them to allstar88uk@yahoo.co.uk Thanks muchly. =)


	3. Inertia

**Bitter Circles**

*** 

**Rating**: PG-13

**Summary**: You know, sometimes I don't know what I'm doing anymore. What I want, where I'm going. Maybe I'm just happy stuck in this... this what? This indifference to life? Maybe... I'm just happy stuck in this... inertia.

Inertia

---  
In this blackout, inertia will hold our thoughts  
And the exit sign offers no light to see by  
Can we cast our shadows alone in the dark?  
I can't see without you  
---

"Abby. Hey, Abby. Abby, wake up."

I slowly blink my eyes open, adjusting to the harsh light. Ah. Nothing like falling asleep in the hospital.

"Chuny?" I run a hand through my hair and groan. "How long have I been asleep?" She shrugs,

"I don't know, but I need this bed." I stand up,

"Oh, um, sorry." She shrugs, wheeling the bed away,

"It's ok. Late night last night, huh?" I nod. Yeah, late night. I got in last night, well, this morning and just went straight to sleep. But I only got a couple hours worth. If I'm not careful I'm going to have to prop my eyes open with toothpicks.

I look at my watch – 18:10pm. I was off about ten minutes ago. I'm past the point of anything now… must sleep. So damn tired. I'm going to go home, have a shower… and then I remembered. I told myself I would go to an AA meeting. Well, I thought dryly as I pull stuff out of my locker, it seemed a good idea at the time. 

***

So. I stand outside the meeting room. Waiting. For what I'm not sure, but you know, waiting. I haven't been to an AA meeting for a while. Alcoholics Anonymous. Alcoholic Apathy, more like. But then I haven't needed to. Which I guess would be pointing out the obvious, seeing as I haven't had a drink until recently. I ramble when I feel awkward. It's even worse when I'm talking to myself in my head. I'm crazy. I'm not crazy. I'm crazy. And there I go again. Rambling. I shake my head and taking a breather, I walk in to greet …the silence. Okay. I was planning to listen to *someone* but I can listen to silence. I guess.

"Hi. Are you okay?" I turn around to see a guy trying to gather up used and spilt coffee cups, but pretty much failing. I pick up a couple that he can't reach and ask,

"Is this the room for the AA meeting?" He looks grateful I've helped him and begins to walk out,

"Thanks. Yeah, yeah it is. Was. It finished about half an hour ago, but there's another one in about an hour." I follow him out as he walks out of the building to the trashcans outside. He dumps the polystyrene cups inside, and takes the couple I'm holding as well.

"Well… thanks." I turn and walk back down the street. I'm pretty annoyed. Maybe even irrational, but that's probably just because of lack of sleep and/or –cross out where applicable– it's an hour wasted. An hour of sleep. An hour of just my bath and I. Now I just have to think of what to do. Killing time. You know, I've never really understood that phrase. "Killing time". How can you kill time? I'm not trying to be "Miss Logical" all of a sudden, but I just think it's such a stupid phrase. Why? …I just don't understand.

My footsteps sound loudly across the street as they slap on the pavement. Am I here if no one can hear me?

It's dark. I think it's going to rain. But I always do. It's Chicago. It's one of those periods of weather where it's humid, and stifling, and there's no breeze, but you just know it's going to rain. I stop on the street and look upward. Foreboding, cloudy.

I look at my watch. 18:48pm. And then …then it starts to rain softly. I can just feel the droplets; just tell it's raining. I wish I would stick my tongue out. I wish I would spin around. I wish I would smile and laugh and _feel_. I wish I could.

But instead? I carry on walking. And the rain keeps on falling. Heavier, uglier, angrier. A pair of car lights half blind me as the car pulls up by the curb. I try to hurry past it as a figure calls out to me.

"Hey. Hey, Abby? Abby!" I turn. They know my name? I squint as the rain falls harder. I can just see a figure. I shield my eyes from the rain and step closer to the car, not sure it's the wisest thing to do.

"Get in!" The figure climbs back into the car. And I grab the door handle. What's the worst that could happen? I mean, ignoring Dr Pepper.

The dry interior and familiarity of the car is the first thing that I notice. The next is…

"Carter." My stomach sinks. I swear awkward situations are made for me. I blink, and the same image appears before me. The same goddam nightmare doesn't change. Carter, a little bit wet, sits next to me, concerned and with *that* look. He's probably just discovered what a nut I am. And I… I, the late-for-AA-meetings alcoholic sits mildly soaked inside the car of someone I can't even begin to describe how I feel about, in one of the worse scenarios I can possibly think of. It's raining outside, and it doesn't look like it's going to clear up any time soon, maybe just get worse… and I am freezing my ass off, not just from the rain beginning to soak into my clothes, but it seems Carter has the sudden idea to put the air-conditioning on and become Ice-Man. I pull my damp –it's wet-ish– hair behind my ears and cannot even begin to imagine how awful I look. And, oh yeah. The last time I spoke to him –well, yelled at him– I pretty much told him to piss off out of my life. Other than that, we're good.

"Mmm. Hi." I know he is trying his best not to lift an eyebrow or cock his head questioningly.

"What are you doing out there?" I look at him. I know he cares but what should I say? Thanks but no thanks for letting me sit in your dry car, because now I'm going to jump right back out into the rain just to avoid *this* awkwardness, and I'm trying to keep up the not-talking thing for at least until the end of this week?

"Nothing." I say, retrieving the "I don't need to hear this" attitude from our last conversation. I am such a freaking idiot when I feel the need to be.

And then he nods as if it was a silly question.

I guess it's perfectly normal to have just taken in a crazy alcoholic walking in the rain miles away from her apartment doing "nothing". I resist the urge to bang my head on his dashboard.

I look at him. Look away. Still raining. I hate this. I think I hate everything. I hate the word hate-

"Do you… want a coffee or anything?" He interrupts my stream of consciousness. I notice he doesn't say, "Do you want to get a coffee?" implying I should *want* to go with him to get a coffee. I guess he thinks of things like that.

"It'll clear up soon." I say, not quite sure, but pointing out the window anyway as if I command the weather. As if to prove me wrong, a torrent of rain attacks the window. I can hear him holding back laughter, and feel myself getting pissed off. I didn't ask to sit in his car and he can at least have the courtesy of being a polite… "_car-host_" and I hate that everyone can always prove me wrong and for once I'd actually like to be right and actually know what I'm doing and know what the fuck is going on with myself.

I want answers. I want to be happy. I want to be normal. I don't want to be alone.

"Are you okay?" I shrug, continuing to look out the window.

"I'm fine." My automatic response to the question. I hear him sigh and then take a breath,

"I've been meaning to say sorry. For before. I was just… upset that you didn't tell me you were drinking. Because I think we both know how big that is for you." I still don't look at him.

"It's not a big thing. I've got it under control." I know he's fighting with himself - whether to push me or not, but he just sighs again and shuts up. Thank God. I can feel him settle back into his seat, giving up, for now. I refuse to look at him, and continue staring morosely out of the window. I can feel him glance over at me from time to time, but more of the time looking out of the window as I am, staring at a fixed point that we're not even sure we can see anymore.

***

18:59pm. About half an hour left to waste away.

In half an hour...

... I could catch a charter flight to Las Vegas. And never come back.  
... I could stare out the window and continue to watch the rain.  
... I could walk around the block. Or a couple of blocks.  
... I could go to the liquor store and get utterly drunk.  


I choose to stare out the window and continue to watch the rain. Mainly because it means I don't have to move or think. I don't have to do anything.

I feel tired; I never should have decided to go to an AA meeting after work. I should've known I'd be like this. Irritable and unable to concentrate on much, let alone listen to someone talk about drinking.

I guess I'm always irritable though. I don't know what's wrong with me nowadays. And I have no idea how to change _that_. Don't know if I want to, really. Okay, I did before. I did last night. But really? What's the point? What. Is. The. Point. I've been arguing with this question for years now, but it always comes back to me. And I can never answer it straight. I can avoid it - I'm good at avoiding. So what *is* the point of this? By "this", I mean my life. My routine. I wake up, go to work, smoke a cigarette on break, work, eat a little lunch, finish work, go home to sleep. And it goes round again. And again. What have I got to gain from it? I'm not studying to be a doctor anymore. I'm not in a relationship. I'm not... I'm not doing anything different than what I was doing a year ago. I haven't progressed anywhere. And I can't see what I'm working to either. I can't see anything to want. So maybe some part of me still wants that husband and that house in Florida and a kid of my own. But knowing my luck, he'd probably be having an affair with next doors' wife or he'd be a layabout who only moves to switch channels between the Superbowl or wrestling and wondering how he fell into marrying someone like me. And the kid would be bi-polar and the house would be a shack on the beach in Florida because we couldn't afford anything else. Knowing my luck, that is.

I _think_ I'm happy with what I have now. I guess it means something that I don't really want anything else, but then... I don't know. There's a fine line between... between being ok with what you've got and trying to believe that things can't get any better.

***

"Carter, I'm sorry." I'm still looking out the window, but I know he's listening. There are only a couple of minutes left before I'll go to my meeting. And I think I owe him an apology.

"What for?" His tone always polite, always as if I could never do anything wrong. I'd almost forgotten I was sitting in his car, because he was so "politely" quiet.

"For telling you to leave me alone." I pause. "But I meant what I said. I'm okay. Really. Things are under control." I turn around to look at him. "It's under control. The drinking I mean." He looks at me and doesn't say a thing. His way of saying he doesn't agree, saying he's doubtful.

"What does it matter to you anyway?" I ask him. "Why would it matter that I'm drinking again? How does it affect you?" I think the question is aimed at him as much as it is to me for asking. "Why care?"

"Because..." He shakes his head and looks out the window as if the answer is out there. He hesitates and I can see him change his mind as to what he was going to say. Shrugging and playing with his hands, he says,

"... I don't know... someone has to. Because *someone* has to care about you." I know it's pretty much an "anti-compliment" compliment, but my lungs are burning anyway because suddenly every breath I take is painful and my head is pounding because suddenly every thought I think makes everything harder to understand. God, I think... I think...

And I kiss him.

Evidently I didn't know what I was thinking. That *wasn't* meant to happen. And then I can feel my hand open the door and then I feel the rain hitting my face, but I'm running, God, I'm running. I don't know whether I even shut the door behind me, but I don't care. I find myself gasping for air, my lungs are burning now for a different reason and I don't know if I can't get oxygen to my brain and I'm worrying, but I'm still running. I'm running away from him, away from the AA meeting, away from anywhere, I'm just running. My feet slaps the ground, causing splashes of water to soak my trousers, freezing me to the bone, and my breath becomes more dogged and I can't see where I'm going because the rain stings my face, but I have to keep running.

God, I have to keep running.

***

Anything you want to say? I'd love if you would. Review, or email, allstar88uk@yahoo.co.uk.


	4. Broken

**Bitter Circles**

*** 

**Rating**: PG-13, or R depending on your language limitations.

**Summary**: Do you think that people can be born broken? Or is it that somewhere along the line, you *get* broken? Because either I belong to a broken family, or the people I love and have loved turned my heart to glass and then smashed it to pieces.

Broken

---  
He watched the light shine down on the broken glass  
And thought I don't got no reasons  
Yet there it is and there it was  
It was clear to all of us  
We kept this hat of broken dreams  
---

It's like... throwing yourself forward and dragging your feet... or throwing your feet forward and dragging your body behind them. It doesn't really matter - I hate running either way. It brings back memories of high school, when my mother continually embarrassed me. Every day after school I would try to get away quietly, but because she was a "good mother", she'd try to pick me up. She'd start yelling and screaming and I would run, and run, and she would chase me thinking it was some kind of game.

But now I've got this stupid stitch in my side and not breathing enough has begun to impair my ability to think straight. I stop for a moment, huffing, trying to get a hold on myself.

What am I doing? Where am I going? Why am I running?

Hmm. Maybe I don't want to get a hold on myself. I don't want to think, I don't want to even try to be rational. I just need to move, keep moving. I start walking. Walking is good. Focus. Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out...

I close my eyes for a second, savouring the ability to breath without falling over myself. Unwillingly I open them again, and look into my pockets for my cigarettes and lighter. Shit. I left them in my bag which means... they're still in Carter's car. Dammit! I claw at my hair and glare upward at the bastardly forces that continue to ruin my existence, before the rain starts to blind me. I really need a smoke right now.

And I really need something to get me away from here. I really need something more than this.

I begin to trudge back in the direction I came from, angry, frustrated and wet.

***

It's not too long before I'm back to where his car is. The door is still open, and he's still sitting inside, as if I had only just left.

I peer in, my hand resting on the wet roof, which slowly slips off. The rain falls everywhere, including into the car. I find myself thinking stupid things, such as how much it'll cost to replace the soaking wet car interior, which any normal person wouldn't really think about when you're standing outside in the pouring rain. But I guess I'm just not very normal. I shake my hand off of the water and call to him.

"Carter!" I don't know if he can't hear me or is just ignoring me, but we stay like that for a moment. Me, peering in, soaking and freezing, and him, hunched over the driving wheel, apparently oblivious. _Oh what the_... I give up on him and grab my bag, leaving no evidence that I had ever been there.

After that, everything passes swiftly and before I know it, I'm home, I'm falling into bed, and my last thoughts are of cold rain, loneliness and Carter as I let sleep wash over me.

***

The continuous beeping of my alarm brings me to my senses. _Oh SHUT up_! Why can't I just go back to sleep? Why can't I ever just get another extra five minutes?

I rub at my eyes roughly, because they seem like they've glued themselves together while I was sleeping. It's as if there's some conspiracy of Abby's body to make Abby go blind now, as well as being ugly and achy. I'm feeling ill and sniffly and my throat hurts... I stick a foot out from under the duvet and immediately pull it back in from the biting cold. I really should get the heating fixed.

I think I lie under the covers for at least another five minutes, shivering. This won't do. I need to locate the phone and call in sick and find some painkillers for my stupid head.

It takes me about half and hour before I finally get out of bed and call Weaver, and then crawl back into bed. I hate being ill.

***

"Oh, Dave... I-I can't. I don't want... I don't want to marry you." Cue much yelling and crying. Why is it that soap operas seem so much better than real life? Okay, so the girl is torn between two men. "Dave", is the perfectly nice, amiable one, but there's no chemistry. "Phoenix" -or something- is Mr Danger, but yes, you guessed it, he's got chemistry with her. And of course she's going to ditch Dave and go after Phoenix and they'll probably end up dead whilst Dave gets the last laugh as a rich family man.

I switch the TV off and wrap the blankets I'm under more tightly around me. It's only tolerable for so long. Another thing I hate about being ill is that although you get the day off, you're actually ill, which means you can't actually do anything apart from watch crummy TV all day.

I look around me, and feel this incredible sinking feeling of hopelessness. There are beer bottles, still unopened and littered around the place, and rubbish that's been here for weeks. It's depressing, especially as I know I'll have to clean it up sooner or later. I eye the walls, as if I might find something interesting on the wall to stare at for a few hours. Oh look, a piece of peeling paint! Or maybe a stain on the ceiling perhaps...

I turn sharply as there are several knocks on the door. I hesitate and then decide to sit quietly until they go away. It's probably only some salesman selling the latest toilet cleaner anyway.

"Abby? Abby, are you in there?"

I sigh. I never should have let him know where I live. Pulling myself up, I curse as I stumble towards the door. I begin unlocking the numerous heavy-duty locks,

"Carter, you better have a good reason for coming here... I'm not feeling my _pleasant_ self today so don't expect me to be gracious-" Finally struggling over the last lock, I get it open and wait for him to say something. He looks at me, surprised. 

"You look like hell." I glower at him like a petulant little child.

"Well, I do try. Did you come all this way to tell me that?" I start feeling ugly again, even though I suppose I'm entitled to, being ill. But I start feeling embarrassed about my current state as I'm still in my pyjamas and he's looking as clean as ever in his crisp suit and pants. It's like I want to run into a corner and hide where no one will see me until I want them to.

I let him in and go back to my position on the sofa.

"I thought," he laughed, trailing off awkwardly, "...When Weaver said you called in sick this morning, I thought... that you were just trying to avoid me. You know, because..."

"We kissed?" I kissed _you_. I kissed *you*. And you didn't kiss me back, or make me stay, so I guess I'm sorry. I don't know why I did it. I just had to, and it made sense, in that split second. I'm sorry that you about care whether I get better or not because you need to fix me like one of your ties pulled askew. I'm sorry that I'm pulling you into somewhere you don't want to go to. Somewhere you don't want to go *back* to. I just can't get things right.

But I don't say any of this to him in the huge gap where my great rhetoric ran through my head, but lost to him. He clears his throat.

"Yeah." We look at the floor for another few seconds, while I wait for it to open up and eat me. It doesn't, obviously deciding to be a normal floor.

"Well, I don't plan my work around you Carter. If I avoid you, you'll know." And there's goes my biting wit again. Clever Abby. You really know how to treat a guest. You could mistake me for a man-hating, permanent PMS woman, really. I breathe and close my eyes. He's doing it to me again, making me agitated and jumpy, and even worse, a total bitch.

"Sorry. I just. Not right now. I can't answer or deal with anything right now." I want to bang my head against the wall, or hell, any solid object available. What the hell am I saying? Idiot Abby, idiot! He puts his hands up, no worries, Abby. It's ok, Abby. We won't talk about it if you don't want to talk about it.

"Hey, don't worry about it. I'd better go anyway. Take care?" He lingers it so it sounds like a question rather than a wish. Like he worries whether I can actually take care of myself. He looks around the room for a moment and at the same time our eyes fall on a beer bottle, lying out in the open. He throws a strained smile at me.

"I'll call."

"I'll write!" I say after him, lamely. Not funny. At all. He looks back at me for a second and smiles the best he can, even though it doesn't reach his eyes.

And when he's gone, I get the sinking feeling of hopelessness again. I'm such a fucking mess and the only thing that's delaying a bout of depression is being ill. Things are so complicated. If only I could just... sleep and then wake up and find that everything is fixed. That I'm fixed. 

***

I breathe in and out, mist forming in front of my face. I start to cough, and try to drink some of my coffee to stop myself, but I nearly choke from the heat and splutter, bending over.

"Jesus Abby. Are you trying to kill yourself?" My chest stops constricting and I look up.

"No. But that sounds like a good idea." I stand back up again and wrap the cheap coat tighter around myself, still holding the freshly produced Doc Magoo's coffee. It happens to be my only constant source of warmth and caffeine. Susan just looks at me like I'm crazy.

"Why are you even in today? And why are you going out in the cold? It'll just make you more ill." I shrug, taking a tentative sip of my scalding coffee.

"You think I should poison myself with the ditchwater in the lounge? Either way I think I'm heading for an early death." She laughs, and I think how strange it is to hear someone else laugh because I've said something. Maybe it's just because I haven't made anyone laugh for a while.

"You better get back inside." She wraps her scarf more tightly around her neck, and smiles, "Well, I've just finished my shift, and I'm going to have a quiet night in my _warm_ apartment. Goodnight. Get better." She waves and then turns away, and I trudge back to the hospital.

Susan is nice. I mean, I didn't think so when she first came here, well, came back, but she really is nice. And I think we're becoming friends, which is kind of strange. It's not like we're going to get together and do each other's hair. But if I see her I'll say hi, or if she needs any help, she won't have to ask me.

I down the rest of my coffee just after I enter the hospital and dunk it into a bin, sniffling all the way.

I'm not working because I can't stand to be away from this place, it's more like... misery loves company. When I'm at home, alone, I start going mad, but here, there are people who are doing a lot worse than I am, and I guess I can help them. And sort of forget that I'm ill. I mean, apart from all the coughing, sniffling and headaches... I can forget.

I grab a chart and eye it, pretending to work for the last ten or so minutes of my shift. If I _really_ work, chances are I'll have to stay there for another half an hour on a patient. Luckily I get disturbed as somebody taps me on the shoulder.

"Abby." I turn and smile.

"Hey, Luka." I haven't seen him around for a while. It's probably a good thing.

"What are you doing in? Are you still ill?" I begin to nod. How does everyone know I'm ill? Did Weaver tell everybody or something?

"I kind of figured that it would be more fun at the hospital than at home by myself, watching Oprah or something." He nods and reaches behind me for a chart, but I don't think he knows who Oprah is. Never mind. 

"Don't work too hard, Abby. You should really be at home, you know." He walks off, and I nod, and smile again, but I have a feeling it looks more like a grimace. _Yeah, yeah, yeah_. You think I don't know that? I hate how everyone wants to make sure I can take care of myself. I can! I chose to come in because I want to come in.

"You really should be at home." I turn around again, impatient.

"And shouldn't you have something else to do other than tell me I should be at home?" Carter smiles,

"I'm off. Five minutes ago. I think I'm perfectly free to hassle you in my own time."

"Well, I think I'm perfectly free to call the cops and tell them that you're heckling me," I tease. There's a pause as we think of what to say next.

I'm not sure if we're supposed to be talking. It's childish, I know, it's like that episode of the Simpsons, when Homer isn't talking to Lisa, at the dinner table, and they all end up relaying messages to people they're not meant to be talking to because they got confused. But I did tell him I didn't care what he thought. Surely that means he should hate me right now? Or did the kiss cancel that out?

"So. When are you off?" Uh-oh. He's cornering me. He wants to know what's going on. He wants to know if Abby's checked herself into a mental hospital. He wants to know why Abby kissed him. But I couldn't really tell him.

"Oh. A couple of hours..." I nod convincingly, as if I've just realized when I'm meant to be getting off.

"But you've been here since I have." Crap. How has he been noticing? I haven't seen him all through my shift until now. Damn his cunning observation skills.

"Um. Yeah-" I begin to make up another excuse, but he hikes his bag higher onto his shoulder and looks away for a second, uninterested in my stuttering.

"Look, we have to talk."

"We're not talking now?" I dodge his real meaning. I know what he means... 'we need to talk Abby, let's go have a coffee, Abby, let's figure this out, Abby...'

"You know what I mean." Too right I do. "Can I meet you in Doc Magoo's when you've finished your shift?" A lie, I need to think of a lie-

"I'm meeting Susan tonight." He cocks his head at me, and I can tell he's holding back a raised eyebrow. He knows I'm lying.

"That's funny 'cause I thought Susan said that she was going straight home and then having a quiet night in before she froze to death." He starts smirking and I start panicking.

"Oh." Oh? Is that all you can say Abby? Think of something else! But before I can, I can feel my head nodding, and words tumbling out of my mouth. 

"I'll meet you in Doc Magoo's in ten minutes."

***

"Hey." Carter looks up at me, and I look right back. He's looking pretty happy there, fiddling with some change, with his coat off, cuffs rolled up and top button undone. He's looking nervous too.

"Hey." I sit down, clutching a new cup of coffee in my hand, and put it in the middle of the table as if it'll ward him off. It's kind of strange how me being an alcoholic is not ok, but then me being addicted to coffee is ok. Excess of anything can give you a premature death. Maybe it's just because if he did have a coffee issue, he'd have to stop gulping down huge amounts himself.

I've seen him, and he's just the same as me. Except that he needs something else apart from alcohol. He gets bags under his eyes and he gets down from time to time. But he's got more to lose, because he's already lost it and was lucky to get a second chance. That's probably what keeps him on track. Just the fact that he doesn't want to go back there, doesn't want to relive that. He's learnt his lesson.

"So you have something to talk about?" I'm careful to stress the 'you'. I have nothing to say to him. Well, nothing I _want_ to say to him. He just looks at me as if I'm nuts, which I've had enough of already today from Susan.

"What?"

"Well, I figured that," he trails off, a little unsure. "I figured that we have something to talk about." He doesn't stop looking at me and it gets unnerving. I really don't want to be having this conversation. I can practically foresee the aggravation it's going to cause me.

"I didn't say I wanted to talk about it."

"So you agree that there's something to talk about." I close my eyes as my head starts to produce another migraine.

"Okay, I'm ill. I'm cranky. So I'm not feeling so great. You want us to discuss... things..." I pause, biting my lip, "I kissed you, okay. The end. Nothing to talk about." I spread my arms out for extra emphasis, "Nothing to talk about." I make as if to leave, but he just looks at me in a way that says, 'if we don't do this now, we'll do it another time'. I sigh, and settle back down, but still not taking my coat off.

"Okay, what is there to talk about? Why do we have to psychoanalyze every single little action? It was a mistake. Okay? A mistake." I bite down harder onto my lip until I can taste blood. This is award-winning acting... if he sees through this...

"Okay, it was a mistake. Fine. I just want to know why you kissed me." I look away for a second. What should I tell him? That oh, I did it because maybe I'm just human and when someone has those kinds of feelings for another person, they feel like acting on it?

"Carter. I kissed you because I mistook my feelings of compassion for you as a good friend for romantic feelings. I'm sorry. I was wrong." He nods okay, just like he accepts it like that. Like he never sat on that bench with me and told me he didn't want to be my friend anymore. Like I never walked out on that bridge with him and told him I was waiting for us to happen.

I swallow some coffee as if it'll fill this aching... feeling in me. It's like suddenly I want to leap into the middle of the road, or climb on top of a building and jump off.

"Look, Abby. I've been meaning to say that-" he stops and shakes his head. "To say that I'm sorry about what I said to you. About your drinking. Because it's none of my business, and," I swear he's going to say 'it's your life you're screwing up' next. Everyone else has said it one time or another -teachers, my mother, boyfriends, the husband... and now the 'good friend'. "I'm officially butting out from now. You know where I stand on it, but I won't make it an issue anymore. I miss you Abby. I miss being able to just talk with you." _Great_, I think, _it's back to being 'the friend'_. The good friend. I nod dutifully, stretching a painful smile across my face. I'm happy.

"Another coffee?" he asks, noticing my empty cup. I nod, and he begins to call for the waitress.

Hell yes. Give me caffeine and keep it rolling. Or I'm off to the nearest bar.

***

So you've got to think life isn't worth living for anymore sometimes. And that's what I'm thinking right now, all curled up on my bed.

I'm not going to go into all that crap about how bitter I am about the world. Contrary to popular opinion, I don't enjoy whining or bitching or griping or throwing pity parties for myself. I don't enjoy telling people I don't need their help, because I'm strong, I'm controlled, I'm Abby -hey, haven't you heard how independent I am? I don't enjoy trying to control my need for intimacy with liquor or nicotine.

I'm just scared of getting hurt. And love is one of those things that can get you hurt. Yeah, we've all heard the Romeo and Juliet stories, we've all heard about When Harry Met Sally. Well, that's all bull. Love is not a many splendored thing; love is not all we need. Love makes us weak, and I'm not ready to give into it. Even if that means I'm going to be lonely for the rest of my life.

That doesn't mean I won't have friends. It'll just mean I'll always have this hole inside me. You know, when you close your eyes, sometimes you can almost taste the bitter alcohol making you feel whole. Like you can be artificially patched up. I can settle for that. Really.

I roll to one side of the bed and grab the phone. I need to talk to someone who doesn't need to lecture me. Unfortunately, I don't have very many numbers in my phone book. There's my mom, Richard's old number, Carter -cell phone and mansion, Luka, work. Strangely enough, they're probably the people who've screwed me up the most. I think I need some new friends. Or something.

I guess I could call Susan; she gave me her number a couple of days ago and told me if I ever needed to talk she would be there. I think it's in my coat pocket.I get up to check, and sure enough, it's there. I start dialling in the numbers and pray that she'll pick up. _C'mon Susan_...

"Hey? Susan? It's me, Abby."

***

"... And then he lost the key. Can you imagine?" Susan shook her head, laughingly. I nodded along, but I didn't really care. I was trying my best to pay attention. It was just kind of difficult as the gin and tonic I had ordered sat in front of me, taunting me. I shook myself mentally and prepared to pay attention.

"So..." I trailed off, hesitating as to whether I should ask my question or not. She shook her head and sipped her drink.

"I'm telling you, if you even ask why I didn't stay in Arizona and work things out with Dix, I am so not talking to you anymore." I put my hands up, feigning innocence.

"Wasn't even thinking of asking." I rolled my finger around the rim of the glass. _I really want some of that alcohol_. I looked back up at Susan, "Just. What was it like to leave Chicago like that? I mean, even after Mark... It must have been hard."

"Yeah, it was. In a way it still is. But I got the chance to start over again, work in a place where no one knew me. It was almost like I could be somebody different." She laughed dryly. "Yeah, and then I came back. Tell me the truth... do you think I'm crazy?" I paused.

"For coming back? No. Not at all." I thought about it a little bit more. "Do you think that it was good for you? Going to Arizona?" She shook her head, hesitating.

"You know, sometimes I think it was. I met new people, I felt new. But sometimes..." She looked away, as if she wasn't really even talking to me anymore." "Sometimes... I don't know." She shrugged. "I came back. I guess that means something." I wondered what I would give to leave Chicago. I wondered if I had too many ties. Or if I had any at all.

Susan smiled, suddenly cheering up, "Is something wrong? You haven't touched your drink." I shrugged.

"No." I picked up the glass and stared at the liquid inside. I told myself I wouldn't do this. I told myself I didn't want to do this. I told myself I wanted to get better, wanted to go forward, not backward. I was going to an AA meeting. But it's _controlled_. I know what I'm doing. It would be different if I drank every hour, every day.

I lift up the glass and swallow some of the drink, which gives me a sinking feeling. Like I've fallen off the edge and there's no one around to catch me.

"Nothing's wrong."

***

It's been re-edited and added to. I was going to make them two separate chapters but I figured it worked better this way. I was not happy with chapter 4. :/ Thanks to reviewers. ^_^ allstar88uk@yahoo.co.uk


	5. Nicotine

Bitter Circles 

*** 

**Rating**: PG-13, or R depending on your language limitations. 

**Summary**: Someone once told me that an obsession, or an addiction was simply something to distract the mind from pain. It's probably true. But it's not like I'm going to admit that to anyone aloud. It's like admitting I need help.

Nicotine

---  
When you drop down everything's all the same  
Saccharine caffeine nicotine gum  
Yeah it tastes sweet but it's not for long  
And I just think you thought it would be  
When you're looking for truth on the cover of a magazine  
--- 

Sometimes I wake up in the mornings and think that I'm not living, I'm just _alive_; I'm not feeling, I just _feel_. And it's just another cup of coffee because I've fallen into the habit of drinking it, and it's just another missed breakfast because it's not, and has never been, in my routine. I think sometimes, the things I do must have had a reason. All things begin with a reason. 

It's just. 

I can't remember what they may have been for the life of me. 

So I sit on the train and watch everything pass me by. Sometimes morning paper headlines glare at me, and the people sitting behind them pretend they're not sitting on a public train with all sorts of people; some of them shafted from reality, but most trying to ignore each other in the vain hope of keeping their routine intact. Sometimes I see an old man sleeping in a doorway and I forget that he must have been someone once. Now he's just another object in the scenery. Sometimes I see a mother tugging at a child, who spits, his screams meaning to discomfort you, but I walk past, politely ignoring someone else's problem. 

Most of the time, I don't feel anything. I just sort of drift into "unthink", where everything goes by quickly and nothing is colourful. Most days I walk to work like this from the train station with a disaffected look drawn in lines across my face. 

Even the different patients, with their character-specific cases begin to blur out of focus. A pregnant teenager with crack-junkie parents, or a senile old man who doesn't understand anymore that his wife won't wake up, or a mother who accidentally left a bottle of bleach out where her son could reach it. It all adds up to the same thing, however hard you try. 

Sometimes you save 'em, sometimes you don't. 

And that's what you're working for – the 50% chance that your patients live. Of course, sometimes it's not always 50/50, but what I mean is that they can only either live or die. 

Maybe I only try to tell myself I don't care at all. Maybe this disaffected attitude I paint all over myself is just a weak shell to protect myself from the liability of human emotions. Maybe that's why I find it so hard to let myself think with the heart rather than the mind. I just need to be in control. 

Control-freak. It echoes around my head like an airborne disease. Control-freak. Control-freak. But I don't think I'm tough enough to admit it aloud. 

What is everything adding up to? What am I going to achieve with this? 

I don't know. I really don't know. 

*** 

Footsteps jog up the stairs and come to a stop when they reach the top of the roof. I don't bother turning around. I just hold my lit cigarette delicately between my fingers and breathe in the nicotine, feeling like I'm smoking myself up and away with each breath. Up somewhere where I can't be hurt by anyone or anything. And a lit cigarette is good conversation even if no one else is. 

Oxygen isn't enough. It's the nicotine I crave. Scientists say oxygen gives you life; without it we wouldn't survive. Well, it certainly allows you to live. Whether you do or not isn't up to the oxygen. 

I think it's stupid how those who can, will smoke, or drink, or take drugs, or anything really, that's not good for their health. Whilst somewhere, someone feeling the consequences of their excess habits in life, lies in a hospital, hooked up to tubes to keep them alive. And we all know what happens, -the organ failures, the respiratory diseases… we all know that we're killing ourselves slowly. And I think that secretly, we enjoy it. It's as if we feel like we can control our deaths, in some minute way. I mean, who doesn't worry about dying within the next second, and not doing everything they've ever wanted to do? And all those who say they live their lives as if there was no tomorrow are liars. If you lived your life like there was no tomorrow, you might blow all your money, or spend the night in a brothel, or _something_. You'd probably do something akin to the guys in _Armageddon_, the night before they were shot up into space to save the world. 

"It's… cold up here." His voice shakes me from my reverie. I still don't turn and there's a long silence as he comes to stand beside me. I don't _need_ to turn to know who it is. We look over the edge and watch the little ants go about their day-to-day lives in cars they have built, and I wonder, how many of them could honestly say they were happy. I can't honestly say I haven't thought of jumping. Just to interrupt their mundane, routine lives. Well, that reason and a whole lot of others. 

Maybe one day I could start up an EA – Empty Anonymous – club where all the people who've continually fucked up their lives as if they couldn't help from doing so, like a habit, an addiction, because they haven't ever known anything else, could go and wallow in their emptiness. We could ask questions like, 'What is the meaning of life?' and compete with each other in 'saddest story of the week'. But it seems to me in all my years as an addict, attending those AA meetings, the only thing I've ever learnt is that no matter what people say to make you feel good, everyone's just clinging on to each other, not believing what they're saying but hoping that they help anyway. 

This silence might mean something. You know, like in movies, where two people who cannot be together – and yet cannot be apart – stand next to each other, looking at the same thing, wanting to say something, but not knowing what. Maybe like that. But I really don't know. 

There's an ache throbbing in my gut to just explode, but that may not be caused by his presence. (Well, maybe.) He just makes me feel awed. I mean, it's crazy how someone can continually smell so good, come rain, wind or shine. Today he smells citrus-sy. It could keep me thinking for the rest of my life as to why we're not together. But then I'd probably get close to finding the answer and promptly die, a 95-year-old spinster half-eaten away at by moths, locked away in some scummy cupboard-apartment. 

Timing, they tell me, it's all to do with the timing! I even tell myself that, but I'm not sure up to what extent I believe that. 

I hate the thoughts silence can induce. One of the things I've learnt in my life is that thinking too much about your life -especially if you're naturally pessimistic- can make you want to kill yourself. So I speak aloud to him, but quietly, just to avoid thinking and I can almost feel him straining to hear me. 

"My brother calls my cigarettes 'bitch sticks,' you know." 

He relaxes a little and smiles to himself. I can see him do it out of the corner of my eye. 

"Well, it certainly hasn't been scientifically proved that there are links between crankiness and nicotine anywhere, but in your case…" I laugh a dry cough, which reminds me to get some more coffee. He's cute when he's being funny. Insulting, but funny. And I know he's joking. Most of the time. 

"Cranky is a quaint way to put it." 

"Cranky is the nice way to put it." 

"Thanks a lot!" I feign an indignant punch at him, all the while smiling. I hate that he can make me smile. It really sucks. 

A beeping interrupts, and he checks his pager. 

"I've got to go," he says, seeking to meet my eyes like it's important, "You okay?" 

I nod, my head tilting slightly to the side, inadvertently questioning him. He starts walking back towards the stairs, but before he disappears, he says half-joking, half-seriously (at least, I think), 

"Don't jump. We'd miss you and your bitch stick breaks." I smile a little and turn back, stumping out my cigarette and placing my hands on the ledge. I lean my entire upper half over, and exert a little pressure on my hands so that my feet lift off the ground. My heart beats quicker as I entertain the thought of falling, but then I drop back. 

I wouldn't jump. I wouldn't do something as stupid as that. 

*** 

Any reviews or comments or plots/ideas (!!) would be  very much appreciated. *looks at Tori* Help! allstar88uk@yahoo.co.uk


	6. 3am

Bitter Circles

**Rating**: PG-13   
**Summary**: Everything begins and ends in loneliness. Sometimes you find nothing in your loneliness, sometimes you find something only for it to go away again, and sometimes, if you wake up out of your sadness long enough to see, you find others.

**3am **   
---   
It's 3am I must be lonely  
When she says baby   
Well I can't help but be scared of it all sometimes  
Says the rain's gonna wash away  
I believe it  
---   
I gather up a few of my belongings lying in my locker and shove them into my bag. My shift is finally over, and everything just _aches_. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, doing this for so long. But I don't think you ever really get used to it. You just… burn out, eventually. 

Pulling on my coat, I push open the lounge door and step out into the hallway. It seems pretty dead tonight; it always is around midnight. A dirty old man sleeps in chairs, ignored, a few people wait to be seen. The harsh yellow lights make everyone look jaundiced and gaunt. Everyone is ill here.

I head to the desk to sign myself out, and realize I don't want to go home and wallow in loneliness and try and force myself to rest. I need some sort of company, and I don't mean a bottle. I scan the board to see who's on tonight and Frank turns to me, saying gruffly,

"Are you going home or not?" I turn my back on him and start heading out when Carter crosses paths with me, heading into the lounge.

"Um, Carter, are you off soon?" He stops walking, one hand on the lounge door, the other on the end of his stethoscope around his neck. His forehead begins to crease and I can see what he's thinking. He's worried, because I never usually sound like I need to talk to him. He wants to know if I need to confide in him, or talk to him. One day I'll be able to smooth those creases in his forehead out, instead of cause them. It's on my to-do list.

"Yeah, a half hour ago. I was finishing up a patient," he cuts off, "Hang on a sec, I'm just going to get my stuff." I wait, patiently, untying my hair from its tight ponytail. The roots ache from being pulled back so tightly and I massage them for a second. I wonder if it's fair to make him give up sleep time just to keep me company. He comes back out without the white coat and stethoscope, carrying car keys in his hand.

"What's up?" We start walking together, out of the ER doors and into the empty ambulance bay. I shrug, and don't think he sees, so I start mumbling something about being hungry, or getting something to eat, and would he like to? It echoes down the silent street and I feel like I am disturbing something. He glances sideways at me, and smirks a little.

"I don't think you're going to find anywhere open at this time of the night." I shrug a little abashed at my idiocy and mentally hit myself over the head with something hard. He smiles suddenly, amused, and simply says,

"Come on."

"This is where I live when I need to get away from Gamma's." He switches on the dim lights, and I gaze around. It's a small apartment, neat and tidy, but looking as if no one has ever lived here. No belongings to make it personal, no photographs to make it home, no magazines thrown about the coffee table for bored guests… "Gamma's having a dinner-conference at the mansion tonight, and I don't think it'd be a good idea to bother her." I nod, and he throws his jacket onto the back of a chair, motioning for me to do the same. I take my jacket off, folding it over my arm and walk around a bit.

"It's nice," I say, feeling obliged to comment on the apartment.

He smiles apologetically, not fooled by my politeness, "Yeah, it's a bit empty at the moment, but I haven't found any time to really think about decorating it. It's just a place where I can be alone, when I need to be." I sit down on one of the sofas, and he disappears into one of the kitchen.

"Are you still hungry?" he asks, voice muffled in the kitchen, presumably from inside the fridge.

"Um, not, not really…" I feel bad for making him look for something to cook for me, when I'm not actually hungry, at all.

"A drink?" he calls again. My mind flickers to a bottle that sits inside my fridge, but then he interrupts, calling out again, "Abby? A coffee, or anything?" I figure asking him for some wine would just bring on awkward stares and silences, so I ask for just some water. He comes back out with it, hands it to me, and sits opposite me. I thank him, but instead of drinking it, I just stare at the water, watching my reflection gaze back up at me mournfully.

"Are you sure you're not hungry?" I look up at Carter, and smile, "No, really, I'm fine now." I place my cup on the coffee table. "So. When's your next shift?"

"Tonight at 7. I get the whole twelve-hour shift." He pauses. "What about you?"

"Eight-hour shift from 6. You should sleep." He nods.

"Yeah, yeah… I should." I stare at that spot just above his forehead, and we observe the silence. It's quite an art, but I think I've kind of mastered it now.

And then it hits me. What the hell am I doing here? It's all so inappropriate. We're just sitting in the half-darkness of his dim lights, in his empty apartment, waiting for morning –or our shifts, whichever comes first- to arrive, or so it seems. And. I have a cup of water in front of me.

This is crazy. Or just plain weird.

I clear my throat, noticing how loud it sounds when no one's talking. So I open my mouth to say something and suddenly deciding to change my mind, end up with a half-strangled sort of grunt. He lifts an eyebrow.

"Are you okay?"

"Uh-huh." I nod. Way to go, Abby. Talk about breaking the ice. Now, don't get ahead of yourself, but there are some great topics coming up here…

A kettle shrieks, and we both jump. "My coffee," he explains apologetically, getting up and walking into the kitchen. I think we're both a little too relieved for the interruption in the silence. I lean back into the sofa, and stare up at the ceiling. Mmm. Definitely some tension in here. But it's only _Carter_, I think to myself. Yeah. Maybe that's the problem.

He walks back in, holding his coffee, which I am sure is scalding him. "You shouldn't have too much caffeine, you're meant to be sleeping soon." He shrugs.

"I'll be fine. You're sure _you're_ going to be okay?" This time he sits next to me on the sofa. He focuses on me so intensely it's difficult not to meet his eyes. Either he's trying to get rid of me, or he just wants to know why I'm being so strange.

"Yeee-ah." I draw out the answer in an unconvincing manner.

"So…" He smiles easily, "Did you want to talk to me about something, or did you just feel like sitting in front of a cup of water in an empty apartment?"

Smilingly, I say,

"I bet you have no idea of how weird that sounds."

"Oh, I have an idea of what it looks like." I become more sombre and shrug.

"It gets quiet when there's only me and four walls." He looks down for a second, lets a beat go by.

"I know." Then, he smiles a little. "They don't talk back, either."

"I'm sorry for taking up your time, too, I shouldn't have…"

"But you have." He doesn't say it angrily, though. Only as if he wants me to stop apologizing. "And it's okay. That's what friends are for."

I look away, conflicted. That's all we'll ever be. Friends. Because I ran away. Because I always run away, and because I always will. _Are you happy with that?_ someone inside of me asks, annoyingly. But it works, I say, it works so I'm sticking with it. But are you happy with that?

"Are you happy with that?" I blurt out, half asking myself, and half asking him.

"With what, doing what friends should do? Sure." I shake my head, but I think he already knows what I mean.

"No, I mean, are you happy with being just friends?" The moment I say it, I know I should have kept my mouth shut. He shrugs, and looks away so that I can't read what he's thinking.

"What- What are you saying? You said you made a mistake when you kissed me. Are you going to make another one?"

In reply, I kiss him. It feels easier than the first time, like familiar ground. But this time, he pulls away, eyes full of confusion, and wariness, and maybe even with traces of anger. I answer his question before he even asks it,

"That wasn't a mistake."

A beat.

Two beats.

He doesn't say anything. I can feel my insides trying to implode and I imagine they look like an ER patient's stomach being butchered, though I have no way of knowing. I wait for the ominous black hole to appear in the ground to eat me up, but it doesn't come. As if to ask the same question, he looks at me again; and I can see he's just tired now, and he just wants me to tell him the truth, to stop playing with him. Because in the few seconds I've been sitting here holding my breath, I realize I've been playing with him, as much as I've been lying to myself. So I tell him, and the doubt growing in my head, something that I know for sure.

"I'm not running now."

I think I see a tug at the corner of his mouth, but I have no time to think about it before he mumbles, _I know_, against my lips.

And _then_ I implode, as I feel his eyelashes on my skin and clothing becomes no barrier between us.

I wake up, grapple for my alarm clock and then realize: I am not at home.

Carter lies next to me, sleeping peacefully, an arm tucked around my waist, his other clutched in a fist. I watch his contours in the darkness a for minute, wondering whether I should wake him up and then decide it would be better to let him rest for his twelve-hour shift. I slowly lift his arm off me and lay it back down on the bed gently. For a second he murmurs, twisting, and then turns onto his other side, facing away from me. I fumble around his bedside table, wishing I could see in the dark, trying to find a clock, or something, before remembering that he said he hadn't really furnished the apartment. Still, he must have a clock or watch, somewhere. Pulling on some shirt and pants I find in the drawers, I creep out of the room and close the door behind me, heading for the sitting room.

I hesitate when I pick up my coat and look back to his room, but then slip my shoes on, wrap on my coat and let myself out.

I was never very good with the required post-coital lovey-dovey conversation thing. Even thinking about being trapped in that situation sometimes makes me feel nauseous. When I was younger it used to be a lot easier; you'd go behind a bush, pull down your pants, count to sixty and then it was over and you'd share a drink with this boy, who you'd probably never see again. And as I got older, the place varied, and the numbers I counted to varied, but it always ended the same way. It was the same with Richard after the first 6 months or so, he stopped trying to nibble my ear, or talk to me about something he probably thought was a cute thing to talk about after sex. It was the same with Luka, but I think we just ended up not even talking in the end. It was just bam, bam, bam, and I think we both hoped, or thought, it'd be enough, but…

I run down the last few steps, out into the street and walk under the streetlights so that I can glance at the watch in my pocket. It says it's 3:00am, and I reach back into my pockets for my lighter and a cigarette. Lighting up, I slow down and walk onto a bridge and watch the black waters swirl beneath me, tapping the ash down into that void. This is about the best it gets for me: my post-coital cigarette. And it's strange, because I'm not enjoying it, and the world's not falling away, because there's nowhere I need to be falling away from. I'm just worrying about Carter, and wondering if it was the right decision to leave him there, to have it look like I had run out on him. And I'm feeling dirty, like some sort of hooker, because I don't feel anything different to what I usually do, and… it was just the same. The same as everyone else, the same as Richard, Luka… I don't know. Did I expect the sex to be different with Carter? Did I expect it to make me feel perfect? Rain starts to fall softly and I throw my cigarette angrily into the river, because the answer is yes. _Yes_, I thought he could make everything better, _yes_ I thought he was… _Was what Abby?_ I can hear laughing in my head. _Was what? Your problems are your own. No matter who he is, he can't fix them for you. It doesn't mean he's wrong for you, it just means you've been putting off that AA meeting for too long._ And I want to shut it up, but this truth is ringing in my ears, forcing me to swallow it. I need to fix myself, because no one else can. And I know this already, what I can't seem to accept is that… I don't think I can fix myself _by _myself.

"You ran." I turn, and seeing Carter stand there, getting wet from the rain, I wish I had stayed in the apartment. He says it half-jokingly, but I still feel guilty.

"I'm sorry. I left my bag, though." He smiles a small consolatory smile and walks nearer. The rain falls into my eyes, so I turn back around and look down into the water. He comes and stands next to me, taking my hand and holding it in his, drawing imaginary lines over it.

"Were you going to turn into a frog?" I look at him, confused,

"Frog?"

"You know, Cinderella ran away because she was going to turn back into Cinders, and left her shoe." I shake my head,

"No. I just needed a smoke."

"Ah, so you stole my clothes-" I interrupt with a hoarse early-morning laugh,

"Well, what else did I have to wear?" He carries on, though, smiling just as I am,

"And then ran off to attend to your vices." We are silent, then, watching the rain fall down into the river, making it swell higher than it was yesterday morning, and I contemplate the difficulty of getting rid of a particular vice. He elbows me,

"What are you thinking?"

I take in a breath, and decide to start work on my vice of lying. He deserves some honesty from me, at least. He probably deserves a lot more than me.

"That I can't stop myself from drinking. That I can't fix myself. That I'm never going to get out of this on my own." He holds my hand tighter and starts drawing circles on it.

"You're not alone." We both mull over this for a second, before he starts to speak again, "You are the only one who can choose whether you want to try and get better or not, and I stepped out of this a while ago. I can't make you get better, you know that. But I can be here to pick you up if you fall. And if you don't, then it's all for the better. I'll be here when you need me." I let him squeeze my hand again and enjoy the warmth for a little while longer, before I feel the need to slip my hand out of his and into my pockets to reach for a cigarette. I think we both feel the significance of this action, although neither of us says anything.

I light up, noticing the rain has let up, and puff some smoke out into the crisp post-rain air. I elbow him this time,

"What are you thinking?" He looks sideways at me, and leans forward on the ledge of the bridge.

"You really want to know?"

"Sure." I blow out some more smoke, and suddenly feeling the cold, wrap my free hand around myself.

"I'm thinking that the Prince never gave up on his Cinderella, even though he only had one shoe and the entire kingdom to look through. And then even though when he found her, she was Cinders and not Cinderella, he still loved her the same. The Prince loved her anyway. And I'm just thinking. Maybe we have a chance."

I take in a lungful of nicotine and wrap my arm around myself tighter. Laughing dryly, and a little uncomfortably, I say,

"I guess you never grew bored of fairytales, huh?"

He doesn't say anything, and I can't help but think I may have spoiled something for him. He was being open with me, as much as he could, he was holding his hand out to me and I turned it away. I feel like a piece of sharp glass, that dug deep enough will make him bleed. And it makes me so sad I choke on the smoke I breathe in. I feel as if I already know our ending before we've even had our beginning.

So I take his hand, my fingers like ice over his, squeeze them tight and exhale my wispy insides.

"We'll be okay."

He caresses my hand with his thumb, and we stand side by side watching the current of the river swirl. However much it hurts, I tell myself, he will be worth it. I hope.

"This isn't the end, nor is it the beginning of the end. It's the end of the beginning."

Circles make the world go 'round.

And that isn't some sort of dumb pun I threw in just because it suits the occasion. It's just true.

I used to think my life was this never-ending circle of shit. That it would just go round and round, and bad things would go away, only to be replaced by worse things. The thing I never realized was that things were actually _getting_ replaced. It all followed a similar routine, but things _did_ change.

Bad things and good things come and go, and a lot of the time, they don't balance out. I know that, and I accept it. I get worried when things are too good for me, anyway.

I struggle with my drinking these days, there are so many meetings to go to, and so many 'top tips' and quotes that I am sure I know off by heart now. It seems to get me nowhere. But I still try. I suppose that accounts for something.

And I can see that being with someone doesn't mean you'll get better more quickly than you would have done, alone. Maybe you'd have more resolve from more support, but other than that, not really.

It's nice to have him come and wait for me outside the meetings after a shift, or to actually come in and sit next to me through a meeting, holding my hand. But I don't need it. Just as it's nice for him to hug me when I've had a bad day, or nice to get teased by the other nurses about him. But I don't need it. If he left me tomorrow, I'd be shattered, it's just part of the deal, the one which says you have to allow yourself to get a little hurt in return for everything you feel. The one that says you have to take a risk. I'd probably feel like dying. But I wouldn't die. I breathe him in because it's good for me, but not because it ensures my survival.

And so you see. Everything's separated from needing and wanting. I haven't quite figured out whether I _want_ to drink, or _need_ to drink more, yet.

But I do know that I _want_ to be with him, or to kiss him in public, or to lie in bed next to him so close that I can hear his heartbeat.

Oh, _occasionally_, I need him.

When I need the garbage to be taken out, or my sock draw rearranged.

But only occasionally.


End file.
